


if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind

by officialgeorgeglass (orphan_account)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-05-27 21:32:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6301183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/officialgeorgeglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>clarke griffin meets lexa when she's fourteen and terrified; at sixteen, she's at least halfway in love with her, and in way too deep; by eighteen, they're all the other has left.</p><p>by nineteen they're torn apart by the world.</p><p>at twenty-two, they're just as cruelly flung back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

Clarke meets Lexa when they’re both fourteen and too stubborn to let their terror show, even as seniors leer down at them and the sheep that make up their peers cower towards the lockers. The brunette’s dressed in all black, like some kind of wannabe rebel, her face stoney and unrelenting. Like Clarke, she’s too afraid to show fear. For all her clothing, though, she cannot capture the raw truthfulness of the blonde’s rebellious streak, and before the first bell of their first day of high school, Clarke has chewed out a shaggy-haired junior boy. She’s all sharp tongue and blazing eyes and righteous anger stuffed inside a container too small, and the boy backs off immediately as a crowd looks on.

Clarke grins and laughs with a girl who calls herself Raven and accepts thanks from the junior’s sister - Octavia, she reminds herself, pretty name - and tries not to enjoy the awestruck attention she finds herself receiving. But just like that, she’s a celebrity, and most of her fellow freshmen can’t even look at her properly. The realization brings a frown to her face and her stomach sinks a little, but it can’t last long as Raven tugs her bicep a little too violently towards their homeroom, Octavia halfway there already.

Clarke is too ingratiated into her new world and the vivacity of these two girls to notice all-black girl slipping into a seat in the front corner. She lets her friends drag her to the back row, and no one takes the seats around them.

  
  


She learns her name only when she falls into the seat beside her in their third period math class, blonde hair flying, red-cheeked and still half breathless from laughter. She turns to her and smiles, waiting until the brunette turns towards her. When she does, she still has the same mask of indifference and bravery plastered onto her features. It almost fools Clarke, until she blinks, and can’t school her eyes into boredom quite quick enough.

Clarke’s still terrified, too, despite everything.

“Hi.” Her voice is brighter than she feels, giddiness hiding away her sense of understanding.

“Hello.” Clips the girl’s voice, her mouth barely moving around the word. The teacher’s started talking by now, and no-name turns her gaze to the course outline projected onto the whiteboard. Clarke catches the way her eyes roll and she slumps backwards in her chair, pencil twisting between her fingers. She turns to the board herself, and at least half of it is gibberish to her. She scribbles down a copy of what it says into her notebook, hunched over the paper. By the time she’s finished, the teacher is taking attendance.

 

“I’m Clarke, by the way.” Her grin is gone now, replaced by her own mask of confidence. The girl looks to her in her bored way, and seems to understand. There’s a ghost-tilt to her lips that speaks volumes.

“Lexa.” 

If this girl is only capable of single word answers, Clarke thinks, then she certainly has enough questions to keep her talking.   


Clarke answers to her name on the roll, doodling mindlessly in the margins of her notebook. She pretends not to notice Lexa watching her. Lexa is second to last on the list, and when she stiffens at being called  _ Alexandra _ , voice tightening around her single-word correction, Clarke pretends it’s unnoticeable.

 

She does, however, draw an unflattering caricature of Mr Pike in the empty space on her page. When there’s a tiny sound that might be laughter beside her, she sneaks a glance out of the corner of her eye. Lexa’s smile might even be prettier than Octavia’s name, and she hides her own flashing teeth behind a curtain of blonde.

The cartoon stares up at her knowingly, though, even when she goes back to scribbling down notes.

  
  
  


Clarke sits at lunch with Raven and Octavia, faux-belonging and comfort settling well on her shoulders. Leadership befits her, though she can’t recognize it as such quite yet. They’re joined by Monty and Jasper, who aided Raven in blowing up a beaker in their science class, and a boy who introduces himself as Finn and admires Clarke’s quote-unquote _ballsiness_.

He fits right in, and both Clarke and Raven decide that his untrimmed hair and aquiline nose are cute, and his boyish cockiness charming. When shaggy-hair ( _ Bellamy _ , Octavia tells them) appears, looking for his sister, Finn whispers something to Raven that makes her snort water through her nose in laughter. Clarke, on the other hand, notices a table with only three occupants over his shoulder, an already familiar head of brunette braids once of them. The others are older - a sophomore and a senior, Clarke would guess, but they hardly matter.

Lexa catches her gaze and holds it, a tiny nod of acknowledgement Clarke’s only recognition before her eyes flicker away again.

Clarke is dumbfounded by the sudden disappearance of Lexa’s stoicism. It’s a puzzle piece that won’t fit quite right, and her head tilts, her mind whirring.

 

Clarke Griffin always had been a little too fond of impossible challenges.

 

* * *

 

It takes less than half an hour in their last period English class for Clarke to realize the obvious: Lexa’s practically a genius. Well, no, not practically - literally.  _ Literally _ a genius. She thinks that maybe she’s got the first part of the puzzle all figured out: Lexa’s lack of enthusiasm and care stem from boredom and brilliance, not an obsession with My Chemical Romance and Green Day. She wonders if she should take notes on Lexa, rather than Lord of the Flies, but decides against it. It would be creepy, she reminds herself.

She zones out from the teacher’s lecture and finds herself sketching - not just doodles, this time, but a rough cityscape blanketed by stars. It’s only a sketch - nothing she’ll continue, she knows but it’s relaxing nonetheless. She can hide her fear in the shadows the skyscrapers cast down on the smaller towers, and her anxieties in the rough outlines of windows. At some point, Lexa’s elbow nudges into her ribs, and her notebook slides just onto Clarke’s desk.

 

_ YOU’RE REALLY GOOD _

 

Lexa writes in all caps, clean and organised, and Clarke smiles at her, all teeth and no reservations. Lexa’s lips quirk back.

“Thanks.” She whispers, pencil hovering just above the drawing. She can’t bring herself to re-immerse. The pencil drops onto the page. “So what’s your IQ? 140? Higher?”

Lexa’s lips roll together, and her head ducks, but there’s self-pride in her eyes, mingling with surprise. “149, last time I tested.” Her answer is quiet, and unsure in its confidence.

Clarke whistles, low and a little incredulous. “Holy shit, you’re gonna like - cure cancer or something, one day.” She laughs at herself, before realization dawns on her “Hang on, why’re you in like, a normal class? You aren’t like, up two grades or anything, are you?”

Lexa laughs, too, though it sounds a little forced, and Clarke wonders what button she pushed. Lexa’s puzzle expands from five by five to a hundred-piece, just like that.

“No, I’m in my usual grade, Clarke.” She reassures, before shrugging, and turning back to the teacher.  _ Sharing time is over _ , Clarke thinks. “It’s a long story.”

 

But when the bell goes, and she tears the drawing out of her notebook, Lexa grabs her wrist. “Clarke?”

The blonde looks down at her captured limb, and her face scrunches into a curious amusement. “Yes, Lexa?”

The brunette’s lower lip catches between her teeth, and one of her eyes squints closed in nervous embarrassment.

“Do- d’you mind if I um, keep the drawing? I figured - I mean, if you weren’t keeping it, that is.” Clarke grins absolutely childishly, fiendishly even, at her embarrassment. She slings her bag over one shoulder and drops the paper back onto her desk, hunching over it.

“What’ll you pay me for it?” The tease is muffled by body and hair but Lexa doesn’t miss it. She’s never backed down from a challenge.

“Something tells me you’ll need help with your math.” She retorts as Clarke straightens back up. “I’ll tutor you.” It should offend the blonde - it would offend most, but Lexa somehow knows it won’t get to Clarke, whose smile is made up of sharp teeth and pink lips and knowing eyes.

“Deal.” Clarke hands her the paper, and Lexa laughs when she realises the bottom right corner has been signed, the buildings polished off. “See you tomorrow, Lexa.”

 

The brunette’s eyes lift from the artwork only long enough for her to watch Clarke saunter out of the classroom, then return to it, sanning, committing every inch to memory, her smile free and unbidden. She tucks it carefully between her French textbook and one of Anya’s AP chemistry books (light reading), and thinks that maybe her room in the foster home will have a little life on its walls, now.


	2. two

She’s sixteen and a little less terrified but just as headstrong even as pain keeps her bound to her couch, rippling from her abdomen outwards at every move. She moans and laments her existence and watches shitty infomercials for an hour before she’s bored out of her goddamn mind, staring at the ceiling and whistling to herself, wishing she’d brought her sketchpad down with her when her phone buzzes in her pocket.

 

**_O:_ ** _ where are you??? ray is getting antsy and i can’t take it. also, she and finn are making me want to vomit _

 

Clarke snorts and quashes the part of her that still-maybe-just-a-little has a crush on Finn, glad that at least texting doesn’t send tendrils of pain through her.

 

**_Clarke:_ ** _ trust me, you would not want to deal with my cranky ass right now. cramps are a bitch :(( go hang w/ lexa, you know she’d love to see you. or lincoln would, at least ;) _

 

She ignores the immediate protests from her friend (‘ _ it happened once at a party, clarke, everyone knows that those hookups live in the  _ **_past’_ ** ) and knows that Octavia will find a seat with the foster siblings at lunch. Infomercials blare at her from the TV still, and she finds herself slipping so easily back into mundanity, Octavia forgotten in the fuzziness timelessness of total and utter boredom. She checks her phone for the time.

 

**11:48**

 

She sighs and unlocks it, returning to her messages.

 

**_Clarke:_ ** _ save me, i think i’m dying _

**_Clarke:_ ** _ seriously, lex _

**_Clarke:_ ** _ my uterus is eating me alive _

 

She shuffles back on her elbows until she’s sitting upright, reaches for her water bottle, and waits for a reply. It takes two minutes.

 

**_Genius:_ ** _ Shit, clarke. you can’t do that to me, I was running and I thought you were serious _

**_Genius:_ ** _ Drama queen. _

 

Clarke grins at her phone and chugs down water.

 

**_Clarke:_ ** _ glad to know you’re not as heartless as you want everyone to think _

 

Lexa doesn’t reply. It only makes Clarke laugh harder, and when the door opens noisily half an hour later, she thanks whatever God there is for the fact that she lives so close to their school.

“Lex?” She calls out, and yeah, maybe she’s dramatising her pain a little bit, but doesn’t she deserve to have someone worrying and caring for her in her time of need?

The door closes and practiced footsteps get closer and louder until Lexa’s body is right in front of her - still clad in her gym clothes, skin gleaming with sweat. Clarke doesn’t think she’s ever felt affection like the surge she does for Lexa as the brunette crouches until they’re at eye-level. Clarke’s smile is weak, and Lexa worries at her lower lip.

“Heat pack?” She asks, eyes drifting to Clarke’s midriff. The blonde nods, and Lexa straightens up, halfway to the kitchen before the couch-ridden girl can even notice the plastic bag she leaves beside the sofa.

 

“You bought me presents?” She asks, at once both a kid on Christmas day and guilt-stricken over the idea of Lexa spending on her. She can almost hear the way Lexa stiffens when she replies.

“Octavia was eager to get rid of me. She funded it.” Clarke doesn’t care where the money came from, so long as it wasn’t Lexa’s meagre allowance - Octavia can buy as much time with Lincoln as she wanted, but her heart melts (despite her stomach’s screaming protests) when she turned to peer inside the bag.

 

Lexa returns and hands her the heat-pack, and maybe it’s the hormones, but Clarke can feel herself tearing up a little as Lexa crouches again, so she ducks her head and shuffles forwards until there’s space behind her, and she raises her brows at Lexa, who rolls her eyes. Clarke can practically  _ feel _ her sigh.

“I’m still all sweaty, Clarke.”

“Please?” She pouts just a little, and she watches the ice of Lexa’s resolve crack down its center out of one eye. She loops a finger through the bag handle and shakes it. “I’ll even share the Reese’s.”

“I’ll have the sushi, if it please you.”

Clarke positively  _ cackles _ at that. “You came prepared, didn’t you, Lex?”

 

* * *

 

Lexa’s always fit perfectly against her back, and even though she smells and dampens Clarke’s shirt a little, she holds the heatpack firm against her abdomen and traces perfect circles on Clarke’s bicep, and if Clarke was emotional before, she’s basically a mess now.

She presses her head back into Lexa’s clavicle and feeds her chocolate without looking, fingers brushing awkwardly against lip, teeth and cheek as the brunette giggles at the cartoons Clarke can’t seem to focus on. 

 

(Her pain is too great, she can’t focus on anything.)

((All she focuses on is Lexa.))

 

“Don’t you have class?” She asks eventually, voice muffled by peanut butter on her tongue.

Lexa laughs, and Clarke can’t help herself but laugh with her, their bodies rumbling in sync, teetering dangerously on the edge of the sofa. They laugh so long Clarke forgets what she’d even asked, and Lexa’s arms tighten protectively around her, drawing her closer. They peter down to a silence, comfortable and understanding.

 

Clarke can’t quite remember growing together with Lexa - it’s more like one day they weren’t, and the next they were. She’s still the leader she destined herself to be when she yelled at Bellamy, and Lexa is too, now, in some ways - captain of the track and crew teams, miles ahead of anyone else in coursework; idyllic, god-like, unattainable.

Her arms anchor Clarke to the couch, and she can’t escape how  _ lucky _ she is to know her, to hold her care and her trust this much, to be this revered by someone so intimidatingly apart from the rest.

“I love you.” She murmurs, and Lexa’s face buries itself in her hair. Clarke feels her smile against the nape of her neck.

“You too, drama queen.”

  
  


Clarke fades in and out of sleep, but Lexa remains constant, draped over and around her, even when the heat-pack goes cold and the light outside dims. She checks her phone, and misses the sound of the door opening.

 

**5:00.**

 

“Shit,” She whispers, and shuffles until she’s facing Lexa - but pain ripples through her.

“Lexa,” The name comes out a frantic moan, Clarke tugging at her shirt as Lexa’s eyelashes flutter. 

 

“Oh.” It’s not Lexa’s voice, and Clarke’s breath catches in her throat. She sees Lexa’s eyes bulge in realisation, and they both scramble backwards until they’re seated, Clarke’s stomach cramping the entire time.

“Mom,” She chokes, and Lexa tugs up the shoulder of her shirt from where it fell during her sleep. “Dad.”

“Oh, no - don’t let us interrupt. But I will remind you that you have a bedroom for a reason, Clarke.” Abby’s voice is terse, though there’s a hint of amusement under the words.

It’s Lexa’s turn to choke at that, and she begins to stutter out the truth, but Abby disappears into the kitchen before either girl can.

 

“I’m ordering Thai, if you’d like to stay for dinner, Lexa.” Jake smiles a little too knowingly at them both. “I’m sure you’re famished.”

 

“I - it wasn’t-  _ Dad!  _ ” Clarke protests, and the admonished way her face scrunches is a little too endearing, and when he winks at Lexa before disappearing after his wife, the brunette can’t contain her laughter, and she falls against Clarke in silent giggles.

Clarke pouts and grumps until Lexa recovers herself and wraps an arm around her, drawing her into an embrace that the blonde can’t  _ not _ smile into, especially not when the lanky girl climbs onto her lap and rests her chin on Clarke’s head and mumbles an apology. So Clarke smiles, abashed, into the hollow of Lexa’s throat, and breathes her in, and lets her throat tighten and her lungs constrict and her heart race a little bit, because it wasn’t like that, it had never been, but maybe it  _ could _ be.

Lexa pulls backwards and leans away and Clarke is as amazed as ever by her physical form, her strength and her balance and her flexibility, and when she catches the pure delight and adoration in Lexa’s eyes, and the soft, simple quirk in the corners of her lips, Clarke sees her perfectly, even though the shadows of evening have taken over the living room.

 

And when she blinks and tugs gently on one of Lexa’s braids, she starts to think that maybe it already is like that, and she was just blind.


	3. three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa is comprised of uncontrollable giggles and sugar-sticky fingers and flyaway hairs that catch on Clarke’s shirt and in her mouth. She is sunlight in the gloom of the day, and Clarke is trying not to stare too long or too pathetically, but God, it is hard when she’s grinning at her with that level of vulnerability and trust in the green of her eyes. Clarke has to look away - can’t bear to keep looking and not let everything spill out; not reveal the way her heart is bursting with fondness and respect and a love Lexa can’t reciprocate; not lean over and kiss her and taste fig and coffee on her lips, consequences be damned.

She’s seventeen, and she loves Costia - she really does, can’t imagine how someone could _not_ love the soft-spoken, soft-skinned, doe-eyed gem of a girl, in fact. It only makes it worse that she’s so lovable and so, so perfect for Lexa, because Clarke can’t say a single bad word about the girl, but her stomach still twists angrily at the way Lexa’s voice - no, Lexa’s _everything_ \- goes softer around her, and the happiness that fills the despondent gaps in her voice and the emptiness in her eyes.

Clarke Griffin remains a fearless coward. Clarke Griffin puts others first. Clarke thinks too much and says too little, needs too much and wants too little; she craves everything, and allows herself nothing.

 

Clarke Griffin loves Costia, yes, but _God_ , she is in love with Lexa.

 

But she forces it down and smiles at her best friend’s girlfriend, her quiet intelligence and inescapable empathy, glad that at least _someone_ can draw out the tender side of Lexa’s heart and ease the pains of war between girl and world; and she gets drunk at parties and kisses too many people, and she wonders what it is that has cursed them so much when she catches Octavia’s gaze lingering on Raven a little too long, and pretends not to know when Octavia looks at her, and pretends she doesn’t catch the underlying understanding and pity in her eyes in turn.

 

She’s Clarke Griffin, and she’s going to be at NYU within the year, and she needs to get used to not getting what she wants.

 

They sit together in their final year of shared English classes, and just like always, Clarke draws and Lexa watches and murmurs a running commentary to her, one hand on the back of the blonde’s chair, the other tapping on her desk. She smiles at the back of Clarke’s head every time one of her additions to the teacher’s lecture earns a laugh, and doesn’t let herself dwell on the rawness of the sound.

Clarke hears rather than sees the tilts in Lexa’s lips, and she swears she’s trying to get over her, but it’s kind of hard when Lexa looks like that and sounds like that and is that damn smart and Clarke can’t escape her presence in her life. So she tumbles further and further into the abyss, and it hurts and sucks at her but the darkness is kind of pretty and kind of reassuring.

 

And just like always, Lexa eats at the Griffins’ on Fridays after her crew training and lets Clarke copy her notes and talks her through everything she doesn’t understand, and they feel how little time there is, and they don’t talk about it.

 

But sometimes Clarke will see the fear creeping into Lexa’s eyes, the same as it did when they were no more than children, and know it’s safe to let her own show. So she’ll pull Lexa’s waist until her back is against her chest and rest her cheek on Lexa’s shoulder blades, and they’ll say nothing because they don’t need to and because sometimes words are frivolous, sometimes words can’t capture what they want to say, and Clarke will redo Lexa’s braids.

For all her artist’s talent they’ll still come out uneven and choppy, and Lexa will laugh and grin like a child at the despondent look on Clarke’s face. She'll promise they’re perfect, and Clarke will hide her giddy pride behind a smirk but smile stupidly when she thinks Lexa can’t see, and Lexa’ll leave them in for the rest of the night just to sneak glances at the adoration in Clarke’s eyes whenever she tugs at one, and maybe it won’t fill the holes the future is already digging into them, but it’ll dull the edges and build temporary bridges over them, and for now, that’s enough.

It’s enough, and they know one another inside out - they’re the only ones who can truly understand the other. Maybe they’re not mirrors, but they are equals.

 

Clarke is rhapsodical: Lexa is inexorable. But the world is much bigger than either of them can even begin to comprehend.

 

* * *

 

Lexa turns seventeen amidst drizzling grey skies and leaves a hundred shades of orange and red, and Clarke can’t believe it’s only been four years. It feels longer, so much longer, but she can still recall the day they met in technicolour detail - it was her first day of high school, after all.

(All the other parts are a blur. She can’t even remember what it was she yelled at Bellamy about.)

She wants to sigh as her windscreen takes on swirled outlines between the sharp cuts and barely bearable squeaks of her car’s wipers; wants to because she hates fall and she double hates winter, hates the way rain bogs her down, hates how _demure_ it makes her feel. But as she slams her door closed and sprints flat-out to the door of Lexa’s home, the cloud-heavy, oddly sweet autumn air hits her, enveloping her body into its simplicity and ease, and she remembers how much Lexa loves this time of year; the turn of seasons, the slow decay and rebirth of it all - the tall, stoic spruces and oaks standing regal and tall and constant while the world around them burns a little too bright, then fades away, only to return again a few months later.

 

The winter months have always been Lexa’s vitality.

Clarke can handle a little rain if it means the vibrant, lively side of Lexa gets to shine.

 

She lets herself into the house as quietly as possible, leaving her shoes at the door and padding directly towards the staircase, until-

“Clarke?” The voice is distinctly adult, and one that she knows well by now. She pulls up short, and turns back to the kitchen, her footsteps still just as quiet, yet a little less unsure.

“Morning, Indra.” She smiles, striding towards the woman and sliding her tray of coffees onto the benchtop, alongside the bags of bagels and various fruit. “I didn’t think anyone would be up this early.”

Lexa’s foster mother smiles at the foodstuffs, then at Clarke, and shrugs. “Duty calls.” She says once, holding up a heavy-looking file, before her attention is pulled to her phone vibrating on the bench. She sighs, and begins tapping out a text. The teen watches for a few moments, wondering how it is that she manages to remain so calm and collected despite running a household for her own son, Lincoln, and Lexa (Anya’d left for college two years prior) unsupported, on the salary of a state-employed juvenile lawyer. Clarke’s respect for the woman is undying, just as much as the love for her foster-daughter has always been.

 

Clarke’s about to resume her quest to surprise Lexa when Indra speaks again.

 

“There should be a platter, somewhere in the pantry.” Clarke looks at her in confusion, for a few moments, before she remembers the food she’d bought.

“Oh, right.” She laughs at herself, before wandering to where Indra had indicated. She finds one almost immediately, and returns to the bench only to find the woman already pulling items from the bags. “You don’t have to help - you’ve got work.”

“I think we’re both aware of just how much my daughter deserves, Miss Griffin.”

Clarke can do nothing but laugh in agreement. “I can’t argue with that.”

 

Silence settles in over them, and the dampness seeps out of Clarke’s hair and her jacket, but it’s comfortable and easy, and over all too soon. The platter is left heavy with bagels slathered in cream cheese and salmon, meticulously sliced chunks of melon and orange and berries and, the _piece de resistance_ and Lexa’s favourite: figs, drizzled with honey.

 

(Yeah, maybe Clarke’s head over heels for the girl. So what?)

 

Clarke steps back and smiles at the arrangement, before turning a worried glance to Indra, bottom lip pulled between her teeth. The woman smiles reassuringly at her - knowingly, in truth, but Clarke elects to ignore that part.

“She’s lucky. More than lucky, really, to have someone like you.”

Clarke feels heat creep up her neck into her cheeks, and she ducks her head. “I thought we were agreed in the idea that she deserves the world?”

Indra lets out a small sound of laughter, and stands from her seat, file in hand. “We are. But that’s not to say I - or anyone, for that matter, expects you to give it to her.” Clarke stares at the food until the sound of the front door closing reaches her again, before taking a breath and readying herself once again.

 

The pink in her cheeks has only just faded as she bumps Lexa’s door open with her hip, and the mess of curls and unguarded peace adorning the girl’s face is enough to draw a grin across Clarke’s face. She sets the coffees down on the desk in the corner, and draws her phone out, taking a few too many photos before sitting at Lexa’s waist and leaning over her.

 

“Lex,” She says, her voice soft, the touch to the sleeping girl’s arm gentle. Even so, Lexa jolts out of her sleep, eyes wild, movements jerky. Clarke’s used to it, and gives her a moment to calm herself, before speaking again. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

 

Lexa’s scowl drifts down Clarke’s torso until it lands on the platter on her lap. Shock crosses her face, just for a moment, before her eyes widen, her entire being softening and relaxing. She looks like she’s on the verge of tears, and Clarke knows she won’t want to show it. She smiles a little wider, averting her gaze for the sake of Lexa’s pride. Lexa shuffles up until she’s sitting, and Clarke transfers the board onto her lap. She snatches the coffee off of Lexa’s desk and pushes open the curtains and window, allowing the smell of fall and the sound of rain into the room, before returning to the girl. Without speaking, Lexa squidges over, and Clarke slips into the bed beside her. They don’t quite fit, not anymore, but Lexa’s leg slips over the top of hers comfortably, and their sides are well acquainted enough to handle being pressed together.

 

“Black, two sugars, God forbid.” She announces, handing over the Starbucks cup with an exaggerated shudder.

“Yeah, well, at least it’s not pumpkin spice.” Lexa returns, shaking her head. “You know how much crap you’re ingesting right now, Clarke?”

The blonde just grins and takes a long gulp of the drink, smacking her lips obnoxiously whilst she lowers the cup and snatching up a strawberry from Lexa’s lap. She winks as she swallows it. The brunette’s scoff echoes through the room, closely followed by a snort of laughter from the blonde. Lexa rolls her eyes, and picks up a bagel half just as Clarke’s head falls to her shoulder.

 

It’s comfortable, and raw, and real. Lexa takes a bite and closes her eyes, breathing in the smell of coffee and autumn and Clarke, and wishes she could press pause on her life and stay there forever. She can’t see the wistful gaze Clarke sets her with, nor feel the bittersweet melancholy Clarke carries in her heart with every beat it takes.

“Happy birthday, Lex.” Clarke murmurs, hand hovering uncertainly between Lexa’s own and the platter.

Lexa hums in return, and Clarke picks up a bagel, ignoring the constriction in her chest.

 

Lexa is comprised of uncontrollable giggles and sugar-sticky fingers and flyaway hairs that catch on Clarke’s shirt and in her mouth. She is sunlight in the gloom of the day, and Clarke is trying not to stare too long or too pathetically, but God, it is hard when she’s grinning at her with that level of vulnerability and trust in the green of her eyes. Clarke has to look away - can’t bear to keep looking and not let everything spill out; not reveal the way her heart is bursting with fondness and respect and a love Lexa can’t reciprocate; not lean over and kiss her and taste fig and coffee on her lips, consequences be _damned_.

 

She swallows, hard, and pulls her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them.

“So do you want your present?” Clarke asks, mischief in her tone. Lexa’s eyes widen yet again, and she struggles to swallow down the fruit in her mouth quickly enough to answer.

“There’s more?”

“Of course there’s more. What kind of half-assed person do you think I am? Wait, don’t answer that.”

 

Lexa’s laughter is clear and light and Clarke looks to her just in time to catch her licking juice off of her fingers. She fights down the urges both to clear her throat and to keep staring, and launches a little too thoughtlessly off of Lexa’s bed, landing unbalanced and teetering. Thankfully, she keeps herself from falling, and snatches up her bag, devilish grin back in place as she tugs out a stack of paper, and sets it carefully in front of her friend.

 

“You got me an IQ test?” Lexa inspects the stack, before looking bemusedly up at Clarke.

Clarke’s voice is a little breathless when she replies, “Yeah,” though she’s not nervous, not in the slightest.

Lexa’s smile is a lot smaller than her careless grin, but it’s also measure, careful, and constrained. She grabs Clarke at the elbow and pulls her into an embrace, surprising the blonde not for the first time with the strength hidden in her lithe, lean body. Clarke wraps her own arms around the girl’s midriff, and pretends not to feel the dampness of tears rubbing onto her neck.

“I love you, Clarke.”

“Yeah, Lexa. I love you too.”

“No, seriously, I-” Clarke pulls back, and taps Lexa below the chin until she’s looking up into Clarke’s eyes.

“I know. And I love you, too, okay?” Lexa bites down on her lower lip, her million-miles-a-minute thought process evident in her eyes, before nodding once.

“Okay. Do you - d’you mind if I do this now?” She picks up the test again, and Clarke laughs.

“Nerd.” But she’s already extracting herself from Lexa’s lap and drawing her sketchbooks from her bag, ushering Lexa towards her desk. “Go on, I know it’s been like, six years. You must be _dying_ inside, truly.” She teases, and Lexa’s face scrunches, tongue appearing for just a moment, before she turns away and all but runs to her desk.

 

The room soon fills with nothing but the sound of pencils on paper and Lexa’s quiet mutterings as she works. Clarke draws her from memory, the way she looked with the tiny illumination of natural light hitting the side of her face, fig in hand, juice on her chin, eyes sparkling with ease and comfort and simplicity; Lexa with every carefully sharpened edge dulled down to softness just for them; Lexa elevated to near-divinity by nothing more than her own mortality, her own raw energy.

She forgets these aren’t available to the rest of the world; she forgets how much her own lens distorts them.

 

When Lexa finishes her test and Clarke kisses her on the crown of her head and hands her the drawings, she doesn’t realize what they’re going to tell Lexa before it’s too late, and Lexa’s already looking at her with a gut-wrenching look of shock and revelation on her face.

 

Clarke bolts, heart-racing and hands shaking, before either of them can react.

 

* * *

 

In hindsight, she knows running was quite possibly the worst course of action she could have taken. But it was the only one she could handle - the only one that might have salvaged what otherwise couldn’t have been anything other than Lexa’s worst birthday ever.

 

At least, she theorizes, Raven and Octavia’s party will be an opportunity to get drunk and forget her in someone else. Or it was, until Costia asked her to make sure Lexa got home safely.

“I have work in the morning - you know I’d take care of her if I could, I don’t mean to put responsibility on you, I just worry, you know?” Clarke just nods, sipping away at her beer.

“Don’t worry about it. I got her.” She smiles at the girl as she gathers up her jacket, and smiles at Clarke in return. “I always have someone to look out for at these things. Usually it’s just Raven or O, but I’ll call Bellamy if they’re out of hand.”

 

“Thanks, C, you’re amazing.” Costia smiles at her and kisses her on the cheek before floating away, and not for the first time, Clarke curses her loveliness before sighing loudly, downing the rest of her drink in one, and setting down her cup.

“Sorry boys, I’m out of beer pong for the night. Babysitting duties.” She shrugs, winking at the group gathered in support of her and Miller, who promptly replaces her with Monty. In a better mood, she might have protested such a quick turnaround, but the prospect of having to care for a drunk Lexa after what had transpired only days previously? Well, Clarke’s mood had soured greatly in a span of ten seconds, to say the least.

 

Drunk Lexa’s a peculiar incarnation, all physicality and mouthiness and challenge - not just to Clarke, but to everyone. It’s unsettling, to say the least, observing her whilst sober. She laughs and drinks and dares everyone as far as she’s dared in turn, never reaching her usual point of closure, never reserving her tiny smiles for Clarke or Costia, never seeming to hit a stage of drunkenness at which Clarke _needs_ to remove her. She must click into her presence, though, at some point, because one second Clarke’s watching her flip coins into a cup with Finn Collins of all people, and the next she’s perching herself on Clarke’s lap, cup of something _deathly_ smelling clutched precariously in one hand, the other wrapped carelessly around the back of Clarke’s neck, awkwardness forgotten and abandoned in the face of inebriated simplicity.

 

“Are you tired, Clarke?” Lexa’s control over her diction is impressive even sober, but the way she manages to keep from slurring even now is unbelievable. Clarke shrugs, their proximity making her head swim. “Yeah, me too.” Lexa agrees, though Clarke never spoke.

“You wanna go home?” Clarke asks, hating how un-Lexa she seems, but how somehow-still-so-very-Lexa she remains, and despising the fact that she can’t put words to it.

“No. Bed’s too small. Yours.” Lexa yawns, and Clarke thinks the alcohol must finally be taking its toll.

“Okay.” Clarke concedes, and nods. Lexa’s face lights up, but falls into a frown only a moment later.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, letting go of Clarke’s neck and using her now free hand to tap her on the tip of her nose. “You’re not _smiling_.” Clarke sighs again.

“I’m just tired, Lex, don’t worry. Let’s get back to mine, and we can both sleep. But you’ve gotta get some water in you, first, okay?”

 

Lexa’s head tilts, and she stares at Clarke for a long moment.

 

“I’m comfy, though. Can we wait, like, five minutes? I just wanna… Just sit for a while, okay?” Okay.” Lexa doesn’t wait for Clarke’s okay before falling forwards and nestling her head into the crook of Clarke’s head. The blonde carefully pulls Lexa’s drink out of her hand and sets it aside.

“Yeah, sure.” She murmurs, one hand moving instinctively to the small of Lexa’s back, anchoring her in the embrace. Lexa hums contentedly into her collar, and somehow, Clarke starts to think they might just be able to go back to normal.

“I got 154, you know.”

“What?”

“On the test. 154.”

“Shit, Lexa.”

“I know.” She giggles, and wriggles a bit in Clarke’s embrace, burrowing deeper against her skin. Clarke’s heart swells with pride and affection, and it hurts.

 

Silence envelops them, and Clarke strains to listen to the fading music from the lounge room. She doesn’t know how much time passes, and begins to worry that Lexa’s fallen asleep on top of her until she speaks again.

 

“Clarke?” She asks, and Clarke hums questioningly in response. “D’you… Do you ever think that maybe, you could love two people at once? And maybe, for one of them, it’s just the wrong time? Even though… Even though you love them more?”

 

Clarke swallows down her emotions, and strokes a hand through Lexa’s hair, trying not to let her hear fall into her stomach and failing.

 

“Yeah, Lex. I think that’s entirely possible.”

“Okay. Good. I think… I don’t know.”

 

Clarke bites back a sigh, and laments her life choices, twisting braids between her fingers, wishing she were far, far drunker than she is.

  
“You don’t have to know, Lexa. We’re all still young.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this one got long af lmao!!!! let me know what ya think ok much love kids


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa is a black hole - magnetic and inescapable and all consuming, and Clarke doesn’t even know if she wants to stop herself from being sucked further in.

Clarke wakes to the sickly-sweet smell of alcohol and sweat, her face full of hair she’s fairly certain isn’t hers, and her chest fills with her usual sense of post-casual-sex-pride. That is, until she breathes in again and forces stray strands of hair out of her mouth, blinks, and registers that the body entangled with her own is familiar, achingly so, and the faint smell of cinnamon in the room isn’t just last night’s Fireball, but the girl’s shampoo.

Lexa’s shampoo.

The one Clarke keeps a bottle of in her cabinet just in case Lexa runs out or has to stay over or any number of reasons, each more ridiculous than the last.

 

The next thing she realizes is that she’s wearing no pants. And Lexa isn’t, either. Her legs are smooth, and feel like silk against Clarke’s. She forces herself not to enjoy it. 

 

Her tongue still tastes faintly of beer. A sense of panic twists at her gut, and she knows she has to remove herself from the bed, from the situation, from  _ Lexa _ , who’s wrapped around her and half-mumbling between hungover snores that Clarke shouldn’t find adorable but does anyways, her ever traitorous heart jumping a little in her chest at the sight of Lexa - vulnerable and trusting and peaceful and dare she say it happy, all wrapped up in Clarke’s arms and her sheets.

But she can’t have that, not now. Now is not the time. Some days she wonders if it ever will be. She wonders if that matters - if she’ll just spend her life in love with Lexa and unable to do a thing about it, unable to have the one thing she wants more than anything else.

_ She’s happy _ . Clarke tells herself. _ She’s happy and she doesn’t need you, not now, and maybe she never will but that’s okay, because she’ll be happy. And you can try to be happy, too. _

She just hopes she didn’t do anything stupid the night before - she wasn’t drunk, no, but even a single drink has the potential to be dangerous when Lexa’s lips take up at least half of her thoughts all of the time, anyways.

 

Lexa groans in her sleep and shifts, and Clarke slips out from around her, and doesn’t let herself watch Lexa curling into the warm indent where her body had been only moments before. She scuffles over her carpet in the dark until her toe catches on a discarded pair of sweatpants and pulls them on, pointedly ignoring the way they scratch and tug at her skin uncomfortably where Lexa’s legs had been- not yours to think about, Clarke.

She stands, and tilts her head towards the ceiling, the despair and turmoil of her thoughts halfway to a prayer -  _ make it stop, make me get over it, what can I do, what  _ do _ I do - why this why me why  _ **_now_ ** _? _

 

Clarke closes her eyes and breathes through her nose until her thoughts stop racing.

Lexa snores into her pillow. The smell of cinnamon still tingles at Clarke’s nose, or maybe just the smell of it. She snatches her phone off of her dresser and throws one last look over her shoulder at Lexa’s sleeping form in her bed. She doesn’t let her heart swell with love or with pain, and slips silently from the room.

 

Her breath still tastes of beer.

She unlocks her phone to an unread message from Costia. Trepidation hangs from her lungs.

 

**_Costia:_ ** _ hey, Clarke, just wanted to thank you again for taking care of Lexa last night. I texted Indra and she said you guys are at yours, so thank your mom, too, if she’s in. You’re probably still sleeping, but I’ll call her once my shift gets off. Hopefully the headache isn’t too bad for you both, haha. _

Clarke frowns at the aggressive light of her phone and groans. The sound echoes down the hallway. She re-reads the texts and wonders, wonders if Costia knows because surely, she must, or maybe she’s just too trusting, or maybe she knows and she trusts just enough that Clarke won’t do anything to jeopardize having Lexa in whatever form she can get, maybe she’s blind. Clarke groans again, and slips her phone into the pocket of her pants. She rubs a weary hand over her eyes.

 

“ _ Fuck _ , I need coffee.”

 

It’s a sentiment she repeats a little too loud and a little too harsh as she passes on autopilot into her living-room, crashing violently into a mangle of feet and legs hanging over the edge of her two-seater sofa. She stumbles around the obstacle, turning with acid on her tongue and fire in her gaze to see who the  _ hell _ it was that had thought it would be a good idea to sleep on the  _ loveseat _ when there was a perfectly good sofa  _ literally _ three steps away.

She’s blindsided by the sight of Raven and Octavia intertwined so closely that at a single glance, Clarke might have thought they were one person. Her yelling dies in her throat, and she closes her mouth, face and heart falling as one. She steps back and sighs, pinching at the bridge of her nose.

 

“There’s some in the jug, sweetheart.” Clarke’s head snaps towards the kitchen, and she smiles at her mother, tiredness weighing on the corners of her mouth and the slope of her shoulders.

“Thanks, mom.” She mumbles, completing her journey to where Abby’s standing, mug of her own in hand, and watching the same scene Clarke had been only moments before. The teen shuffles past, and her mother runs a hand over her head as she slips just below her eye level. Clarke leans into the touch a little without realising it. Still watching the pair on the couch, Abby smiles to herself, glad for the odd sort of serenity in her daughter’s not-quite-hungover haze. 

 

Mugs clink, and there’s the sound of liquid sloshing into one; the fridge opening; more liquid; stirring; something like a slurp, met by a groan of appreciation from Clarke; footsteps, and then nothing.

Abby feels her daughter at her side, but doesn’t turn. Clarke sighs.

 

“Do you think they’ll ever realize? Or am I going to have to host an intervention?”

Clarke almost chokes on her mouthful of coffee. Abby chuckles to herself.

“Mom, as funny as that would be, no interventions. They’ll figure it out. They have to, at some point.” She commands through splutters, trying desperately to catch her breath. Abby’s laughter heightens at her daughter’s struggle, and she rubs Clarke’s back, trying to ease her back to normal. She opens her mouth to reply, but stops herself as the sound of someone slumping down the stairs reaches them. She turns just in time to catch the lines of concern developing on her daughter’s face.

“It’ll be a task,” She begins, rolling her eyes, “But I promise, Clarke: no interventions.”

“Yeah, good. Dad too.” Clarke replies, hardly paying attention to her, eyes glued to the stairway; waiting.

Abby barely keeps herself from snorting when Lexa appears and Clarke stiffens. She presses a kiss to Clarke’s temple and slips away. Clarke can’t help wondering whether her mom was _really_ talking Raven and Octavia as something in her gut tugs automatically towards the brunette at the bottom of the stairs. It’s a mission to remain where she is, and turns back towards the coffee machine so that her face is hidden, because Lexa is a black hole - magnetic and inescapable and all consuming, and Clarke doesn’t even know if she wants to stop herself from being sucked further in.

 

“Black, two sugars.” She announces, handing over a mug when Lexa’s presence gets close enough. Lexa takes it at once and swallows down at least half the burning hot liquid at once, moaning in a mixture of pain and approval, eyes scrunched shut to the light of day.

Clarke definitely  _ doesn’t _ feel her mouth go dry at the sound.

“Thanks.” Lexa whispers over the rim of her mug, and glances over Clarke’s shoulder. Her features go soft at the sight on the couch, and there’s even the tiny hint of smile that Clarke knows so well playing at her lips. “They’re…” Lexa asks, gaze returning to her. Clarke shakes her head before the question can be asked in full.

“No.”

“Oh.” Lexa’s staring at her, and she can only pray that the elephant in the room just continues being ignored. “Octavia… Lincoln always spoke highly of her, and from what I know, he had reason to. She deserves to be happy, and Raven… Well, you know how I feel about Finn Collins.” Clarke snorts, knowing exactly the strange, mostly uncalled for, _burning_ hatred Lexa's referring to, and nods.

“Yeah, I do.” She slips around Lexa’s figure, towards the pantry, and begins rifling through it. “Think you can handle breakfast?”

“Ugh, maybe. Nothing heavy, though.” Clarke can imagine the grimace gracing her features as she speaks, and grins at the loaf of bread in front of her.

“You go get some aspirin in you. And a bottle of water. I’ll find something.” It’s Lexa’s turn to snort, and she shakes her head, crossing the room in two long strides and bumping Clarke out of the way with her hip. Clarke shivers at their proximity, and hates the way she can’t even seem to handle that.

“You go. Even with a hangover, I’m less likely to burn everything than you are.” She grins, and Clarke’s jaw drops in admonishment. Even so,  she bites her lip and does as she’s told, hating the fact that Lexa’s right, hating the fact that, for all her responsibility, she could never even hope to support herself, let alone someone else.

“You’re so _cruel_.” She grumbles, and Lexa laughs quietly. There comes a resounding thud and shout of alarm from the lounge, and Clarke groans louder, and Lexa laughs harder. In the other room, Octavia looks at Raven’s tangled form beneath her in such worry that Clarke’s sure Raven will realize, but in turn, she’s more focused on rubbing her elbow and smiling so pathetically up at the other girl that she’s quite clearly missing it.

Lexa keeps laughing. Clarke wishes her friends weren’t so irrevocably in love, and mimes gagging into her third cup of coffee.

 

Octavia pulls Raven to her feet and into the kitchen. Clarke wonders if she missed something last night, because they’re still touching. But then Raven pulls out her phone and grins even wider at it, and Octavia’s face sets, and she catches Clarke’s eye for barely a second before looking away.

 

Clarke avoids Lexa’s gaze. They eat in silence.

None of them let themselves mention how tragic they all are, how existential their crises are, how young and foolish they should be but can't.

 

Silently, all of them bemoan how tragic they are, how existential their crises remain, how young and foolish they deserve to be and how little they're able to be that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is pretty much all filler/octaven development bc i have been NEGLECTING THEM and still am tbh. i wasn't originally planning on writing this chapter, but i figured it would be well received/wanted, and i've had a little block in continuing the actual /story/, so here, have some irrelevant Tragedy :)


	5. five.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re worth it, Lexa.” She breathes. “The sweat, and the blood. The tears, too. Every part of a good fight. You’re worth it.”

They’re still seventeen, and Clarke’s still devastatingly in love with Lexa, and when she’s woken up at 4am by her cellphone going off in her ear, she groans quite rudely into the receiver.

 

“Clarke,” Is all Lexa says, and it’s measured, and controlled, and doesn’t shake even once, and Clarke doesn’t think anyone else would be able to pick up on just how much pain that means she must be in, nor be able to picture so vividly the tears hidden in her eyes and streaked down her cheeks, the way she’ll be curled in on herself and shaking, the way she’ll break the moment Clarke hangs up.

Her heart falls painfully into her stomach, and she’s out of bed and pulling on a pair of pants before she even knows it, phone still pressed painfully to her ear.

“Listen, babe, just focus on me, okay? I’ll be there before you even know it, I promise. Just keep breathing, you’ll be fine. We’ll be fine, just you wait.” Lexa’s breathing rattles down the receiver, and Clarke can practically hear the way she swallows. She puts Lexa on speaker and speeds through a pair of texts - one to Jake, one to Indra - just as quick as she speeds down the stairs, trying and failing to be quiet as she thunders out of her house.

Lexa’s breaths come quicker and shallower, and Clarke bites her lip, shushing her through the phone.

“W-why,” She rattles, and Clarke’s heart tightens, prepares to shatter, “I’m never -  _ God _ , dammit Clarke, why am I like this?” It does, loudly and angrily in her chest, like a world caving in two down its middle; it hurts the same, aches and burns in her torso like she’s being torn open from the inside out. “You don’t have to, um, y’know… Just go back to bed, I don’t want to be a burden, I’ll see you to-”

“You’re talking too fast, Lex.” Clarke’s voice is entirely too calm for the cacophony in her chest. “Breathing, remember? In through your nose,” Clarke waits and listens as Lexa follows her instructions, words falling from her lips without thought, her entire being on autopilot as she pushes against the speed limit, counting down the streets left before Lexa’s.

The panic will come, she knows, but not until later. Not until she’s seen her, not until she knows there’s nothing left for her to do. Because that’s the kind of person Clarke Griffin is.   
  


When she arrives in Lexa’s doorway, phone still against her ear, she sighs. Because already, the other girl is building up her walls, putting the pieces of  _ fine _ and  _ aloof _ and  _ strong _ back into place over her expression. Because that’s just the kind of person Lexa Woods has needed to be.

The world’s always told her to shut off: Clarke’s only ever wanted her to open up.

They lock eyes for a moment that seems to Clarke to be timeless. Lexa wishes her eyes didn’t betray her so much. It’s Clarke who looks away, swallowing down a million words that make up the lump in her throat and hanging up her phone. 

 

“Clarke.” Even in distress, Lexa doesn’t waste her name; her mouth clicks around the ‘c’ and the ‘k’ so harshly it comes out sounding something like  _ ‘Klark’ _ , just like always; the breath that follows wouldn’t sound broken or defeated to anyone else but Clarke knows - she gets it, she’s seen it before, she feels the tenuous, feeble strings that hold Lexa barely-apathetic fraying, tearing, almost gone.

The air around them seems to hum with all the things Lexa can’t say and Clarke won’t mention. She’s not going to ask, and she takes a half-step forward. Her voice is more like a breath, not loud enough for Lexa to hear her pain. 

“Hey.” Fear builds and builds and builds until it is the only thing Clarke knows anymore; fear of what Lexa thinks, what she’s going to say, what she knows; fear of her sadness and her heartbreak, fear of what has caused it, fear for her. 

It hurts, to be so scared. She wonders if that’s just a part of growing up. Everyone tells her that everything is, these days, but they don’t know her mind nor her heart, they _ can’t _ know them. Lexa looks at her like she’s some kind of secret; hidden, cherished, vital. Clarke feels transparent. She thinks maybe she always has been. She walks to Lexa’s bedside and pretends her gut isn’t twisting unpleasantly, pretends there isn’t rusting barbed wire waiting, coiled around the remnants of her heart, ready to squeeze, taunting, taunting. Lexa blinks again, and Clarke can see tear tracks on her face. She slips under the bedsheets beside her.

Instinctively, Lexa turns onto her side, face hidden from view. Carefully, Clarke lays a hand on her hip. Lexa shudders under her touch, and presses into Clarke’s hand.

“Oh, Lex,” She whispers, wriggling closer, circling her arms around Lexa’s waist, its firm muscle, wishing she knew how to soften the edges for her. Lexa’s shudders grow and then shrink again, on and off, sometimes with the sound of sobs, more often without it. Clarke’s hands swirl soft over her pajamas, imprinting galaxies into the sliver of skin between low-waistband and shucking t-shirt, every breath whistling through her teeth, shushing, soothing. The knot in her stomach unravels a little further with every breath Lexa takes that doesn’t sound like nails on a whiteboard or the shattering of something ancient.

Her voice is ten times as bad when she finally does speak, however.  “Why,” The word scratches, catches, cracks. She tries again. “Why doesn’t anyone ever  _ want _ me, Clarke?”

 

How in God’s name Lexa could ever think that, how she could forget how loved, how special she is, Clarke can’t work out - then she remembers the only time the brunette mentioned her parents, their still-blurry faces in her memory, the way they simply gave up on her, the years and years of hating herse-

 

“No one’s ever fought for me,” Lexa’s crying again. Though her body is still, her face tucked into her pillows, Clarke can hear the way the tears thicken her words. “Why won’t they - why did she just give up?” The words have an echo to them, like Lexa’s empty, a cave or an abandoned subway station or something along those lines - a drum, skin pulled tight over a gaping nothing.

Clarke opens her mouth, but the words stick like treacle to the base of her throat, viscous, dripping heavy and unpleasant over her heart, her lungs, her ribs. They aren’t the words Lexa deserves to hear right now. Clarke’s never been good at words - she’s an artist, she sees things, she draws things. She paints and she feels. She presses herself closer, until their bodies might as well be one mass, and they one entity. She presses her face into Lexa’s shoulders, half-braided hair tickling at her skin. She breathes Lexa in, steeling herself, feeling her bones fill with something strong, something meaningful.

 

Lexa squirms downwards and spins, her eyes red, framed by tears, and inflamed. Clarke doesn’t let her face or her breath betray any kind of shock or pain at the sight.

“She left me, Clarke. She’s going to England. She didn’t even - she refused to let me say we could even  _ try _ .”

“I’m so sorry, Lexa.” They’re both whispering, even though they don’t need to. Something feels sacred about these words, though. Speaking them any louder would have  _ consequences _ . “But the thing is, whoever’s not fighting for you, if they can’t see that you’re worth it, if they’re not putting in the effort you are… Well, you’re better off without them, Lex. I mean it. Everyone deserves to have someone fight for them.”

“I.” Lexa purses her lips and shakes her head. Clarke  _ doesn’t _ watch her throat bobbing as she swallows. “That’s not even, I mean. I don’t think I’m that sad that we broke up? It felt… Inevitable. Is that bad? I should be more heartbroken over her, shouldn’t I?”

“No, no. No. Whatever you’re feeling, Lex, it’s healthy, and it’s valid.” Clarke won’t let her heart swell at the possibilities hiding behind the girl’s words. “Whatever’s hurting you, that’s what you need to worry about. Not what isn’t.” Somehow, the words come out a lot wiser than Clarke had intended, and it’s  _ weird _ . “You’re worth it, Lexa.” She breathes. “The sweat, and the blood. The tears, too. Every part of a good fight. You’re worth it.”

 

Her heart beats painfully on the rolled-up sleeve of her dad’s old t-shirt.

 

Lexa doesn’t reply, other than to let her head fall forward, her breathing slow, steady, calm. Clarke holds her, and hopes Lexa won’t hold her feelings against her. They fall into silence for so long that Clarke starts to think that Lexa might have fallen asleep on her, and she stares at the wall, illuminated by filtered moonlight and scattered with movie posters and photographs, handwritten notes, drawings and caricatures done by Clarke’s own hands. There are little evidences of her everywhere in the room, trails and shadows of her presence. She stares at the small pile of shredded photos in front of Lexa’s wardrobe, and lets herself think that if she were the one leaving the country, the pile of detritus in her wake would be considerably larger, and infinitely more heartbreaking. She resolves then and there to never leave Lexa. Seventeen, drunk on exhaustion and the unrequited love of a teenager, caught somewhere between child and adult, somewhere between shelter and a swirling black chaos, she swears it to herself. It’s that simple.

 

“Clarke?” Slurs the girl in her arms, slender-fingered hand tugging on her wrist.

“Yeah, Lex, I’m here.”

“Hair.” She half-mumbles half-whines, rolling over so her back is facing Clarke yet again. “Please.”

Clarke smiles, and allows herself a small laugh. “Of course.” She promises, propping herself up. Her well-practiced fingers find their way to the bottom of Lexa’s braid, pulling the hair out slowly enough that she knows it won’t pain the girl. “Go to sleep, Lexa.” Clarke whispers. 

 

Not even a minute later, the soft sounds of Lexa’s snores drift up to her.

 

* * *

 

 

Months pass like sand slipping through Clarke’s fingers. She sits in nail-biting, lip-chewing silence with Raven as they furiously type out essay after essay about themselves, each one sent off with a sinking stomach and sweaty palms. She loses count of the amount of times her father comes padding into her room with almost-cold takeout, dinner forgotten in her desperation, exhaustion, and singular obsession. She leaves NYU until last. It’s her top pick, and one of Lexa’s top 5 - in fact, she’s pretty sure everyone’s at least considered it. Jake knows this, and when she finally announces she’s onto her last application, he doesn’t stop wearing a New York jumper around the house. Abby refuses to go near him and buys a Columbia cap. She spends the week bemoaning the fact that Clarke has no interest in attending her alma mater, and smiles at Lexa when she says it  _ might _ have been one of her options.

 

Clarke finds the cap abandoned atop the kitchen counter when her parents are in bed and she’s grabbing bottles of water for Lexa and herself. She stares at it for a few long moments, eyes filling with tears, and forces herself to smile. There are only a few months left before she’s going to lose them all: Raven, destined to be an astronaut or invent time travel or something equally as insane, Octavia, already planning her way through college into professional soccer, her parents, comfortable in their  _ suburbanness _ , constant, yes, but on ground that will be ghostly to Clarke within the year, and Lexa. Lexa, who’s something special, something bright, something so rare. Lexa, her feet ground down by the weight of assumptions and expectations, her spine stiffened by a desire for more, a compulsion to work, to earn, to prove herself. Lexa, who won’t go to the schools of her dreams because she can’t afford them, but who Clarke has no doubt is going to do something great. She’ll be a hotshot lawyer, or president, or run the United Nations. She’s brilliant. And she’ll be out of reach in the blink of an eye, the way time’s been passing lately.

 

Clarke rolls her lips together and closes the fridge door. In the darkness, she snatches up the cap and slips it on backwards.

  
  


Upstairs, Lexa mutters chemistry notes to herself tugging on the end of her single plaint, pen tapping absently against the page. She’s so engrossed that she doesn’t realize Clarke’s presence until she plops down opposite her. Her eyes flicker up, and she smiles, the tension melting off of her face. Clarke smirks back at her and sips from her water bottle. Lexa looks back down to her textbook, and Clarke can’t help but pout a little.

“Primary alcohol to aldehyde?” She asks, because it’s one of the few pieces of organic chemistry she finds herself able to retain.

“Oxidation, heat with hydrons or dichromate.” Lexa replies automatically, her voice gravelly with exhaustion.

“Robot.” Clarke teases, laughing without sound, reaching over to close the book and shuffle a little closer to her.

Lexa frowns, pouts, and pushes her glasses up her nose as she lifts her chin to look at Clarke. “Hey,” She complains, trying to tug the book back out of Clarke’s hands.

“Hey.” Clarke replies, though it is a greeting on her lips. Lexa’s eyes narrow.

“Mockery is not the product of strong mind, Clarke.” She admonishes. Clarke smiles, and sets the book down on her desk, eyes never once leaving Lexa’s. She tugs the cap off her head and onto Lexa’s, before leaning back and inspecting her, lower lip tucked behind her teeth.

“It looks good.”

“I think I prefer beanies.” Lexa murmurs, something like regret colouring her voice.

 

“You could do it, you know.” Clarke tells her out of the blue.

“Do what?”

“Go. To Columbia. Or Harvard. You’d get in - we both know you would. Fuck the money. Fuck the rivalry. You could.” She knows she’s being unfair, knows Lexa hates her talking like this. All she wants is for Lexa to get what she wants. The world is unfair. Lexa sighs, and starts to hand the cap back over.

“No,” Clarke protests, shaking her head. “Keep it. It suits you.”

“It doesn’t. And it’s your mom’s, Clarke.”

“She’ll buy a new one,” Clarke says, and cringes at her nonchalance. “Besides, it matches my eyes.” She grins, standing up before Lexa can give her the hat. She pulls open one of her drawers. “Every time you wear it, you’ll have to think of me. You won’t be able to forget me.” Clarke smirks to herself, shimmying out of her jeans and leaving them crumpled on the floor.

“I won’t be able to forget you anyways, unfortunately enough.” Comes the grumble from the floor. Clarke laughs as she pulls her shirt off, the sound a little too loud for the early hours of a weekday. She looks over her shoulder at Lexa’s sour expression as she unhooks her bra.

“Oh, don’t be so _negative_ , Lex.” She’s speaking to the wall as she dresses, the sound of her voice muffled by the oversized shirt she wears as pajamas. She turns to face Lexa, red-faced and without words. “I’m a fucking delight. Don’t deny it.” Lexa pulls a face and turns away hastily. She waits as Lexa changes, her outline and the curve of her back long since the only artistic models Clarke’s been able to properly draw.

 

“I won’t.”

“Hm?”

“I won’t forget you. I couldn’t. You’re almost as much a part of who I am as I am myself.” Clarke smiles, feels tears pricking at her eyes. She steps forwards as Lexa turns, fiddling with the waistband of her shorts.

“You too, Lexa. You have no idea how much of an impact you’ve had.” Lexa smiles a wobbly sort of smile, and Clarke leans her forehead onto Lexa’s collarbone, and thinks about kissing her.

“I love you, Griffin.” She forgets the idea.

She looks down, swooping around Lexa and collapsing onto her bed. “Enough to get the lights?”

“Enough to get the lights.” Grumbles Lexa. Clarke grins.

“Love you too then, Lexie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is loooooong overdue. i was going to add like, 3 more scenes but that would take me probably another week and by that point i'll be back at school, so. here y'all go. sorry for the delay.


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